In the Middle of the Night Page 5

  A movement beneath his feet as if he were standing on a ship that was leaving the dock.

  He struck a match, missed the first time, tried again. The flame created a small bright cave in the darkness. Suddenly the entire matchbook caught fire, because he had held the flaming match too close to the others. Pain singed his palm. He dropped the matchbook, watched it flare toward the floor and, to his horror, saw it ignite a ribbon of crepe paper draped over a cardboard box.

  He tried to stamp out the flame but was thrown off-balance as the floor swayed beneath his feet.

  “Fire!” someone yelled from the stage. Someone who saw the flames and knew this was not part of the show’s opening. The floor lurched again, definite this time. The impossible thought, earthquake, came to his mind.

  “Fire!” The voice now a scream filled with terror.

  The audience did not respond, while all the time the flames were spreading to a pile of newspapers and another cardboard box. Smoke erupted, rolling between the seats.

  “Fire!” This time, no doubt at all. The sheer terror in that voice began a stirring down below. John Paul, in panic, advanced a foot or two but the floor shifted violently under his feet, rumbling, crackling, sending him reeling, his arms flailing helplessly.

  He tried desperately to regain his balance, smelled the stench of smoke and heard the screams of children. Standing almost on tiptoe, perched like a bird about to take flight, he felt the floor, with a terrible shudder, give way beneath his feet.

  He did not wake up all at once but drifted in and out of consciousness. All he remembered later was a rising and falling, a reaching up toward lights that blinded his eyes and plunging down again into darkness. Then, voices, mumbling words he could not understand. Different voices, sharp and loud then soft and murmuring, his mother’s voice once, speaking in French. Then down again into a darkness that was sweet and safe.

  Next came the pain. His head throbbed with the pain, pulsed with it, as if he were wearing a steel helmet that was too small for his head, too tight, threatening to crush his skull. His skull a mass of pain.

  Sometimes the pain receded and went away, and he would drift lazily, carried on gentle waves. When he’d try to move with the waves, he’d find himself paralyzed, trapped, his arms pinned down. He was aware of being connected to something. Connected, as if he were part of some terrible machinery. That’s when the panic began, screaming inside him. Until the darkness came. Or maybe the pain. Even the pain was better than the panic.

  At some point he began to dream. Visions filled the darkness, shoutings filled his ears. He was being chased, pursued, tracked down. Shadows behind him, footsteps coming closer, closer. Children shouting and crying. Something terrible chasing him, pursuing him, coming closer while all the time the children cried …

  … Until he opened his eyes, blinking against the brightness of daylight slashing at his eyeballs. He quickly closed them again, seeking the comfort and safety of the dark.

  Next time he woke up, he found his mother and father looking down at him as if from a great distance, their eyes wide with concern and worry. They seemed to be looking at him through a microscope as he lay pinned down on some Biology I glass slide.

  He knew instantly that he was in a hospital bed and that the helmet on his head was not a helmet at all but bandages. His arm was connected to a nearby monitor that beeped and hummed. Another tube was connected to an upside-down bottle suspended in the air. His head did not hurt much at the moment. There was only a dull ache. But his eyes still stung from the brightness.

  His mother’s eyes were wet with tears. She kept saying his name over and over. “Jean-Paul … Jean-Paul …” In the French way. She used to croon him to sleep murmuring his name. But such sorrow in her voice now. He had never heard such sorrow in her voice.

  He wanted to reassure her. I am fine, Mama, I am fine. But he was not certain if he was fine or not, and the pressure on his skull became intense and began to brighten with pain.

  “Take it easy, John Paul,” his father said, speaking in English tinged with the old Canadian accent. “Easy, easy …” He never spoke French anymore.

  “Am I okay?” he asked, his voice surprisingly thin. He felt the panic beginning again, a shivering in his spine because they were looking at him seriously, as if they did not recognize him as their son. “Am I going to die?”

  “Non … non … non …,” his mother whispered, shaking her head vigorously and bending to kiss him wetly on the cheek.

  “You were hurt,” his father said. “A concussion—serious, yes, but a fracture, no. Enough to put you out for a few days.”

  “How long?” John Paul asked. “How many days?”

  His father lifted his shoulders, grimaced, as if reluctant to answer. “Six days—but you are back with us now. That is all that counts.”

  “That is all?”

  But that was not all, because suddenly everything that had happened came back to him, and he heard again the crackle of flames, saw that snake of fire uncoiling at his feet and, God, the balcony coming apart under his feet and then, the smoke and flames and the screaming children below—loud, then faint, fainter.

  He drifted mercifully into the sweet safety of the dark again.

  The next time he opened his eyes his parents were gone. He was flat on his back looking up at the ceiling, which had a swirling pattern, like waves frozen in an arctic ocean. He moved his head tentatively and was relieved to find that his bad headache had disappeared. Only the strange pressure remained. He heard the low murmur of the monitor close by and raised himself on one elbow to look at it.

  A man sitting in a chair by the window rose to his feet and approached the bed. The man was about his father’s age but taller, with massive shoulders and a craggy face with deep lines etched into the flesh like Mr. Zarbor. His eyes focused on John Paul as if trying to read his mind, as if, in fact, he could read his mind.

  “How are you, John Paul?” he asked, his voice as gentle as his eyes were sharp.

  John Paul was suddenly afraid to speak.

  “Do you feel well enough to answer some questions?”

  Still kindly, still gentle, but John Paul tensed, making his arms and legs rigid, holding his body in check. He became aware of his heart beating, like a caged thing in his ribs. Before he could answer, the man said: “My name is Adam Polansky. I am the public safety commissioner for the city of Wickburg. I have been placed in charge of the investigation of the tragic events at the Globe Theater.” He spoke formally, as if complying with some rule about properly announcing his name and purpose. Then gently again: “I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about what happened that day.”

  John Paul was afraid to speak. As if he had something to hide, something to be ashamed of.

  “I know this is difficult for you but it’s very important for our investigation …”

  That word again. Investigation. Maybe that’s what had touched off the fear of answering. And the guilt. He didn’t know why he should feel any guilt.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s not a question of right or wrong, John Paul. It’s a question of getting at the truth of the situation,” Adam Polansky said. “You can help us …”

  A movement near the door caught John Paul’s attention. Turning his head tentatively, he saw another man, tall and thin—thin lips, thin nose—wearing a hat with a visor pulled down over his eyes. He had been standing silently near the door but came forward now, as if he had just swallowed something bitter and foul-tasting. More than sour: his eyes below the visor looked at John Paul suspiciously.

  “You’re too soft, Commissioner,” the man said to Adam Polansky but still looking at John Paul.

  “Take it easy, Cutter,” the commissioner said. “He’s just a kid.” Then to John Paul: “This is Detective Lawrence Cutter. With the Wickburg police …”

  “Here,” the detective said, thrusting the newspaper at John Paul.

  The headlines, blunt
in huge black type, streamed across the top of the front page:

  22 CHILDREN DIE IN THEATER DISASTER

  A smaller headline underneath:

  BALCONY COLLAPSE, FIRE UNDER PROBE

  A third headline in slightly smaller type:

  USHER, 16, TO BE QUESTIONED

  Stephen Delaney, 9.

  Nancy Saladora, 6.

  Kevin Thatcher, 13.

  Deborah Harper, 5.

  Suzanne Henault, 10.

  He dropped the newspaper on the bed and closed his eyes to shut away the names, but they blazed in his mind, pulsing like neon.

  Richard O’Brien, 11.

  Stephanie Albertson, 9.

  Arthur Campbell, 7.

  Before he’d read the names in stark black type, the fact of twenty-two children dead at the Globe Theater here in Wickburg had refused to register in his mind. Tragedies like that happened in other places, faraway places. 300 DEAD IN A PLANE CRASH IN CHICAGO. L.A. FIRE CLAIMS 50 LIVES. Headlines he remembered. But 22 DIE IN WICKBURG? Impossible.

  Then the names.

  Lucy Amareault, 10.

  Daniel Kelly, 7.

  James Bickley, 6.

  And he remembered the faces. Was Lucy Amareault, 10, the small girl in the bright red dress, two teeth missing in front, who spilled chocolate ice cream all over herself? Or was Lucy the older girl, in charge of two small boys, acting like a grown-up mother, telling the boys to “stand up straight and behave yourselves”? Did one of those possible Lucys lie crushed and broken under the balcony a few minutes later? He twisted in the bed, trying to turn from the thought, but his mind refused to obey. Because—what about James Bickley, 6? Was he the boy with hair the color of a Sunkist orange who hadn’t quite made it to the rest room and stood in the lobby, crying, inconsolable, as a wet blotch appeared on the front of his pants?

  Another terrible question that he could not avoid:

  Am I to blame?

  He was not sure whether he had spoken aloud. He clung to the words Commissioner Polansky had spoken after Detective Cutter had brandished the newspaper: “You are not being charged with anything, John Paul.”

  John Paul had looked immediately at the detective, but did not see any mercy or gentleness in those hard eyes.

  At that moment, the questioning had been interrupted by Ellie, a kindly nurse, who said that it was time for John Paul’s treatment. Winking at John Paul, rescuing him from the clutches of the investigators. “We’ll be back,” Detective Cutter promised as he placed the newspaper on the bed, his words like a threat lingering in the air.

  Now John Paul returned to the newspaper, forcing himself to read again the story of the balcony’s collapse—the fire, the smoke, the panic, the heroic efforts to rescue the children, the words at times having no meaning, as if his mind refused to translate the nightmarish parade of letters into actual words.

  His own name leaped from the page:

  John Paul Colbert, 16, a part-time employee, was dispatched to the balcony to investigate what Zarbor called “strange sounds” about five minutes prior to the start of the show. Moments later, flames erupted in the balcony, and at the cry of “fire” pandemonium reigned. As the flames gathered in intensity, the balcony gave way, crashing down on the unsuspecting children below.

  Fire authorities are investigating the possible connection between the fire and the balcony’s collapse. Colbert, who is recovering from head injuries suffered when he was pulled down into the wreckage, is scheduled to be questioned as soon as his condition allows. He is reported in stable condition at Wickburg General Hospital.

  What about Mr. Zarbor? he wondered.

  He searched the story and found the following paragraphs:

  Zarbor, who had owned and operated the theater for 32 years, was reported in a state of shock and was treated by his family physician.

  City Building Inspector Cyril Chatham said he had cited the theater owner for several violations of the municipal codes during an official inspection in August. The balcony was a special concern of his report and he ordered Zarbor to have construction experts inspect it within 90 days. Zarbor, apparently, ignored the order. The 90-day period ended the day before the tragedy.

  John Paul reassembled the newspaper, inserting pages that had fallen aside, folding it neatly, absently, his hands working independently of his mind, his mind having itself become a haunted theater where the balcony crashed again and again, crushing the children below.

  Why had the balcony collapsed?

  Too old, too loaded with junk, he told himself.

  Did the fire weaken the floor, causing whatever supported the balcony to break loose?

  Was the fire to blame?

  Look who started the fire.

  Me, he cried silently.

  Me. Me. Me. Me.

  Nighttime. Stillness pervaded in the room. No hum or beeping of the monitor. The padding of rubber soles in the corridors as the nurses glided to and from the rooms. Venetian blinds shuttered against the outside darkness.

  Television voices, muted and distant, in the air, his own set suspended high in a corner of the room, like a huge blind cyclops. The monotonous voice on the intercom summoning doctors. Dr. Conroy … Dr. Tibbets … call Central … Moments of sudden silence in which he could hear the soft ding as the elevator doors out in the corridor opened and closed.

  He had dozed fitfully, dipping beneath the surface and then rising suddenly, aware of dreams but unable to recall them, only the mood, the aura, the mood black, the aura sad and dismal. All that he could remember of the dreams was the rain falling, falling everywhere, and suddenly turning to silver and then red and then from red to blood.

  Emerging from yet another half-shaped dream, vestiges of sleep tugging at his eyelids, he saw an apparition at the doorway. A ghost. No, not a ghost, as he half-raised himself, squinting, but a woman in a gray raincoat, long gray hair framing her gray face, her eyes not gray but fiercely black, burning out at him, as if something behind her eyes had caught fire.

  She lifted her right hand and pointed a long withering finger at him.

  “You!”

  He had never heard such hate and loathing in a single syllable. Then again:

  “You.” Vomiting the word.

  Slowly advancing into the room, her feet dragging as if she were slogging through water, she screamed: “Murderer …” Voice raspy, hoarse. The finger pointing accusingly, her face taut, terrible.

  “You killed my Joey!”

  He closed his eyes, as if by doing so he could rid himself of this apparition, this wretched figure from a nightmare world. Eyes tightly closed, which instantly brought on a headache, the painful tightening of his skull. Through the pain he heard other voices and rushing feet, and opened his eyes to see the woman struggling in the arms of nurses, pinning her down, the woman moaning, awful sounds coming from her, lamenting, sobbing, eyes still wild like pain made visible. Twisting and writhing, she was taken from the room, half-carried, half-dragged until, at the door, she sagged in the arms of a huge nurse and allowed herself to be taken away, wailing miserably.

  Later, Ellie came in, bringing a basin and towel, to bathe his face. She was younger than his mother, but her hair was completely white.

  Before he could ask her anything, she said: “Don’t let that upset you, John Paul. Poor woman. Her son died at the Globe. She can’t cope.” While she caressed his cheeks, his neck, his forehead with the damp warm cloth.

  “But she thinks that I—”

  “Hush, hush,” Ellie said. “You did nothing. But she’s lost all sense of reality. Relax, now. Float. I’ll give you a pill to let you sleep.”

  But I did something wrong.

  The matches.

  The fire.

  In the confusion of waking suddenly and the woman’s invading the room, he had forgotten the fire and how he had started it.

  He doubted he would sleep again even if the nurse gave him a pill.

  The next day, the truth was made plain. A
gathering in his room: his mother and father, arms around each other near the window, Commissioner Polansky and Cutter, the sharp-voiced man, near his bed. He listened as they spoke, nodding, understanding, head clear, pain gone, but a terrible heaviness in his chest—not his chest but his heart or whatever place or space inside of him where guilt or loneliness became real. Anyway, he listened. He did not mention that small space to anyone.

  He nodded, clinging to the words of the commissioner: he was not responsible for the tragedy. Yes, it had been unwise of him to light that match in the dark, in that cluttered balcony, but the fire had had nothing to do with the collapse of the balcony. In fact, the flames had sent a warning, an alarm that something was wrong in the theater, causing some children to flee immediately, probably saving their lives. “You were not to blame,” Adam Polansky said. “But …”

  But. That dangerous, sly word, slinking into the conversation like a tiny snake of accusation.

  “But somebody was to blame for the collapse,” Detective Cutter interrupted. “And this is where you come in. Where you must tell the truth.”

  For some reason, John Paul thought of Mr. Zarbor. Poor Mr. Zarbor. Was he still in that state of shock the newspapers mentioned?

  “Mr. Zarbor …,” he said.

  “Exactly,” the detective said. “You must not protect anyone. Mr. Zarbor or anyone else. You must tell the truth, not hide anything.”

  But he wasn’t hiding anything.

  Detective Cutter spoke again: “Did Mr. Zarbor ever mention the condition of the balcony to you?”

  “No. I put things up there. Boxes, stuff from backstage. I did not go up there when I didn’t have to. I did not like the balcony.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was spooky, dark. Sometimes I heard noises—like rats running around …”

  “Are you sure it was rats?”

  “I thought it was.” His headache was returning with a bang, like a nail being driven into his head.

  “Could the sound have been something else?” “Like what?”